


Heavy in Your Heart

by crossingwinter



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Weddings, don’t ask me about the worldbuilding or context, honestly this is just an excuse to write porn and i’m not even a little bit pretending it’s not, just look at these two virgin nerds, losing their virginity together, the thin veneer of situational causality that underlies porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-03-03
Packaged: 2019-03-21 07:32:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13736121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossingwinter/pseuds/crossingwinter
Summary: From@otpprompts: Person A, a princess/prince who decided to have one last good night before their arranged betrothal, fell in love (and possibly had sex) with a stranger at the bar. They don’t remember much except a voice. The next day, the first thing Person B (their betrothed) says is “I do” and FUCK that’s the exact same voice as last night’s stranger.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hipgrab (merrymegtargaryen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/merrymegtargaryen/gifts).



> I got this prompt from a _total stranger_ who is definitely _not Megan_ because they said so and, I _do not_ see why they would lie to me about that. 
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks so much to [V](http://thereminnsonata.tumblr.com) for betaing this for me!
> 
>  
> 
> Also—Medieval? Fantasy? Fairy Tale? Pick your poison. I sure as fuck couldn’t commit.

“A last night of freedom,” Poe says, clapping him on the shoulder, and Ben winces.  “Oh, don’t be like that, my prince.  You and I both know that you’ve never  _truly_  been free, but at least you’ve not yet been wed to a complete stranger and won’t soon have sons of your own.”

 _Heavy is the head that wears the crown_ , his mother had told him with regularity ever since he’d been a boy.  One day, his head will be heavy with it too.  The destiny has always hung heavily on Ben’s shoulders, had only ever led him down the darkest paths.

“It would be better to rest,” Ben tells him. He was grateful to Poe for trying eternally to make him forget all that he’d wrought, the memory of the black heart inside his chest, but tonight it doesn’t seem to be working. “I’m to be wed—it would be better not to have my bride’s first impression of me be that I am wildly hungover and still stinking of ale.”

“I’m not saying that you drink _that_ much to excess,” Poe responds, half-laughing. “Merely that perhaps tonight we find you a girl to practice with so that you don’t leave your lady wife wanting on the morrow.” Ben gave him a look and Poe’s smile slipped slightly. He dropped his voice. “I didn’t mean it like that, my prince.”

But it stung all the same. How much of his life had men judged him for, well, everything. He was tall, and muscular, and a strong swordsman, but men thought he listened too much to his mother and not enough to his uncle or father. _He’ll make a weak king. A womanly one_ , had been whispers haunting him since he’d been a boy. In his youthful desperation, it had sent him straight to Snoke, a weakness he could not forgive himself for, could not stop hating himself for, though the man was dead and gone for years now.

Sometimes Ben could still hear his whispering in the back of his mind, urging him to darkness—especially in moments like this one, when he was reminded all too sharply that his inexperience with women was something he was derided for by it seemed, well, everyone. As if _that_ was the worst of his sins.

“I know,” Ben says, trying to quiet the black voices in his mind that whispered that he would never be a good king. They are foolish voices, especially in this instance, he tells himself. Whether or not he can satisfy his lady wife has nothing to do with the capacity he might have to rule sagaciously. He knows this. He knows this as well as he knows anything his mother has ever taught him about ruling justly and kindly.

But the only way that Ben has ever known to make the dark voices go away is to placate them.

“Let’s go, then,” he tells Poe. “A tavern at least. Some ale. And we’ll see where the night takes us.”

* * *

She is not, perhaps, the most stunningly beautiful girl he has ever seen.

Perhaps that is why he can bring himself to respond when she smiles at him. She is not intimidatingly beautiful as some of the ladies who had come to court had been—there at their fathers’ behest to try and win the heart of their prince, even if each day he does battle with a black heart. She is comfortingly plain, rather like himself and he finds that calming. That and the mug of ale in his hand.

“Come here often?” he asks her before wincing at how the words sound the moment they are out of his mouth.

She doesn’t seem to mind though. “First time, actually.” Her voice is accented and at once, Ben knows why she is here.

“You are one of the princess’ ladies.” It isn’t a question.  He knows it to be true from the way the words sit in her mouth and—upon a second glance—the clothing that she is wearing. “Here for the wedding, I take it.”

Her eyes—brown in this light, but he thinks he catches a hint of green in them—flutter between each of his as she rolls her lips together in thought. “Yes,” she says at last. “Here for the wedding.”

Part of Ben wishes to ask her what she thinks of Rey, whether she has a good heart and a good mind as she seems to in the few letters that she and Ben have exchanged, but he has enough sense to know that you aren’t supposed to ask one girl about another when talking to her in a tavern, especially when her lips are curving into that tentative smile. So instead, he says, “And how are you liking it here?”

“Well enough,” she responds. “Your ale is…” Her lips twist wryly “Well, it’s a little too hoppy for my taste. But I’ve heard terrible things about the wine here, and I was given strict instruction to avoid my usual fare, so alas I am stuck with it.”

“And what is your usual fare?”

“Whiskey,” she replies easily. “I shall be needed early on the morrow, and drinking too much would not aid in that.”

Ben raises his ale to his lips, the thought of the morrow bringing his bride once again to his mind. She is there, always—and has been since the moment that his mother announced their betrothal, but tonight, he is supposed to try and free himself of the thought of her.

He focuses on the girl in front of him. She is younger than him—that much he is sure of—and her face is dusted with freckles. _She spends time in the sun,_ he thinks, remembering distantly some girl he’d chosen not to pursue who had mocked a serving girl for her freckles. Ben likes this girl’s freckles. He likes the darkened tan of her skin, though he knows it to be unladylike.

“I suppose the proper question to ask is if _you_ come here often,” she asks him, smiling.

Ben likes the way her lips pull back to reveal nice teeth, the way the skin crinkles around her eyes, somehow welcoming. Everything about her implies warmth, the lightness to her brown hair, her freckles—it is as though she has brought the sun into the night.

 _That_ thought makes him take a sip of his ale, for if he is going to internally wax poetical about the looks of a girl he’d thought plain when he started talking to her, he should at least make sure he can blame insobriety. “I don’t,” he confesses, and he feels his own lips quirking in a crooked smile.

“Then what brings you here tonight?” she asks and he hears, beneath the playfulness in her question, a genuine curiosity.

“A friend of mine convinced me that it would be a good idea,” he said, gesturing vaguely in the direction that he thinks he hears Poe’s voice coming from.

“A good idea?”

Ben steels himself. He does not wish to lie to this girl. In truth, he is a terrible liar. And once again the thought that you aren’t supposed to speak of one woman to another crosses his mind. But he also knows that his mother raised him better than to lie to a girl if he’s—if he’s what? No matter what idea Poe had put into his black heart, that doesn’t mean that anything will truly happen. He has always managed to make a mess of such matters in the past, why should tonight be any different?

“I’m to be wed,” he confesses sheepishly. Perhaps he is wishing to see the disappointment he thinks he finds in her eyes. Something in them changes, that much he is sure of. But the warmth remains and he feels relieved at that.

“And who is the lucky lass?” she asks.

“I’ve not met her, in truth,” Ben says. “It was my mother who arranged the match.”

“And will you be wed soon?”

“Yes,” he says. He takes a deep breath, but before he can say, _tomorrow_ , she asks,

“And what is she like? Have you written to her?”

Ben blinks.

Her gaze is different now. If there had been—and he thinks there might have been—a little flirtation there, now it is gone. Instead, he is met with genuine curiosity and a frankness that is not unwelcome. And there’s something else there too.

“I have,” he says. “I think I sense a good heart beneath her words, but it is hard to tell when one is writing to a complete stranger.” And he recognizes it—that something else. _She thinks me safe_ , he realizes. He cannot tell if he is relieved or disappointed, as he continues to speak. “She is clever, at least. And I’ve heard from others that she is honest, and loyal, and determined, all traits I think I can admire in her. But…”

He takes a deep breath, chewing the words in his mind, unsure how to explain it because every time he has tried to explain it to someone else, he has been told that he makes too much of the matter. “But you do not know her,” she says. Her eyes are distant, and there is something in her voice that leads Ben to ask,

“And are you betrothed?”

The distance in those eyes vanishes and she flushes slightly. “I am,” she says. “I have written to him several times, but as you say…it is hard to know what to expect from this man I am supposed to love when I cannot hear his voice in his words.”

“You have not met him either?” His heart leaps when she shakes her head. Perhaps she will understand then—his trepidation at everything, the way his stomach lurches when people mention the word _wife_ in his presence, this figure who will be at the center of his life for the rest of it and who he has never met, who does not know him, who may hate him.

“I have not,” she tells him with a sad smile. “And his letters are kind. He seems the height of an appropriate husband, but that does little to calm the—”

She cuts herself off and looks around.

“Go on,” he urges her. “I swear you have my confidence.”

She exhales sharply, as if amused by his words. “It’s strange,” she tells him, “I’ve nursed these nerves since our marriage was arranged, but you are the first person I’ve just…outright spoken of them to.” She blushes a little bit and peeks up at him through long lashes.

“And you,” he replies. “I am here with my oldest friend in the world, and yet I have not been able to speak to him so easily as I speak to you now on this matter. He doesn’t understand.”

“Exactly,” she replies. “It’s that they…” she takes a deep breath, and then the words spill out of her quickly and Ben bends forward to hear them. “He may write kind words, he may speak in a manner that’s educated, and he may seem to have a good heart. But what of what I cannot know from a letter? Is he a jealous man? Will he try to put me in a cage? Will he care about my happiness as much as he claims he will? And I’m to be bound to him for the rest of my days. I’d not expected to necessarily love my husband for I know that marriage does not necessarily mean love, but I should have liked to at least know him. I thought that writing letters might help, and it only served to make me more…” she purses her lips and brings her ale to her lips to hide the frustration on her face. “Well, I still do not know him well. And I shall when the time comes.”

“But that does little to ease your fears. I know the feeling well,” he tells her. Because how well he knows the feeling, how well. It is as though she speaks the words to his own soul, more eloquently and profoundly than he could have done. Her lovely eyes—how lovely they are, there’s definitely some green in the brown—soften as she looks at him.

“It is not unreasonable to wish to know the person to whom you shall be bound.”

“Hardly,” he agrees. “If there can’t be love, at least let there be knowledge.”

“Precisely.” Her eyes are glowing quite distractingly at him, and he raises his ale to his lips again because his mouth is suddenly so dry. “But perhaps you can hope that your mother at least picked someone good for you?”

Her voice is so sweet, and the way she tilts her head to look up at him through her lashes makes his breath catch in his throat. That she is comforting him—and he is comforting her…

“I can hope,” he says at last. “My mother cares for love—she wed for love herself. But she is also a pragmatic woman, and the match was made with an intent in mind. And I can hope that she at least thought of my heart when she arranged it but…” he swallows. Time for another confession. It’s only fair—she had just bared her soul to him, after all. Why is it so easy to talk to this stranger? Somehow he is not afraid that she will mock him, that she will think him less than who he is for the fear on his lips. “But she waited for a long while for me to fall in love, hoped that I would find a bride on my own as she found my father. But I only disappointed her there, and she may think I care not for love in the match.”

“And do you?” she asks. “Care for love, I mean.”

He looks down at her hands, wrapped around her mug of ale. They are smaller than his by far, and unadorned as of yet by a wedding ring, or a ring of any significance at all. How glad he is that he had removed his own signet ring before leaving the castle with Poe. He had not wanted to be recognized tonight, and how glad he is of that. Surely one of Rey’s ladies would not speak so freely with the man who would be marrying her princess on the morrow—and certainly not of their mutual angst at their present arrangements.

“I would like not to be hated,” he says to her so quietly she leans in now, her face very close to his—closer to his than any woman’s face ever has been. “I…I should hate to be hated by her.”

“And are you loathsome?”

 _I can be_ , the dark voice in his mind whispers. _I can be a vile snake. I brought my father’s death. I—_

But when he looks in her eyes, the dark voice fades. She is so close, and everything between them is still though the tavern is loud.

She shakes her head. “No,” she murmurs. “No, you aren’t loathsome at all. You’re frightened—that much I can see. But not detestable.”

“You cannot know that,” he croaks out, swallowing, trying to make her understand.

Her response is unyielding. “Yes I can.”

For a moment he wants to forget everything he is, everything he has been, everything he will be, to sweep this strange woman into his arms and kiss her soundly. He doesn’t know how to kiss anyone soundly, though, and that more than anything else deters him. _She thinks me safe,_ he chastises himself, _that we are each to wed our unknown betrotheds. To kiss her would be to ruin the safety. Would make her realize how loathsome I am._ He cannot bear that she think him loathsome—even if that is what he is.

Her lips are full, and red, and the thought of kissing her, having entered his head, refuses to leave. He imagines tasting ale on her tongue. He can taste that taste already in his own mug.

And he hates that for the second time that night, he realizes he cannot lie to her. He cannot. He will not, and if it means she turns and leaves and calls him a monster, he won’t have misled her into thinking he is something he’s not.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispers. “For saying that.”

She blinks at him, and her eyes are bright suddenly and it is her turn to look down at her hands. She doesn’t leave him, though. She does not, even though the crushing weight of shame fills him the more the silence stretches between them.

“Thank you for telling me,” she says at last, and when she looks up at him he sees that there are in fact tears in her eyes.

“I did not mean to make you cry,” he says at once, perplexed. He knows so little about women, but of one thing he is sure: tears are not a good sign. “I should not have—”

“No, I am glad you did,” she tells him at once, and she squares her shoulders and there’s a firm jut to her jaw now. “You fear she’ll hate you, I fear I shan’t be wanted. I’m not used to being wanted.”

His heart breaks for her in that moment and he’s struck more forcefully with the desire to take her in his arms. Not to kiss her this time, just to hold her. _I want you,_ he thinks fiercely, so fiercely he wonders that it isn’t burned across his face. _I want you and if our fates were different…_

“What is your name?” he asks her. He can’t believe he hasn’t yet.

She shakes her head slightly and looks sadder still. “No,” she whispers. “No, I cannot give you that. For the sake of your bride to be, I can’t. Don’t let me be a name you whisper in the nights if ever you are longing for more than she can give you.”

He only wants it more now that she has denied him.

“And if I give you my name in fair exchange?”

“I do not want your name,” she replies and he loses his breath at the gentleness in her eyes. “I do not know if my husband will be a jealous man, but I’d sooner keep you safe from unknown jealousies. You’ve already given me more than I wished for tonight.”

“And what were you wishing for?” he asks. _Wanting. Love._

“Hope,” she whispers, and his breath catches in his throat. _You were named for my only hope,_ his mother had told him when he’d been a boy, running her hands through his hair. He’d never felt as though he had given his mother much hope, had felt as though he had failed her left and right, not least because he’d been weak in the days of Snoke.

This couldn’t be love. He has never been in love, but he knows that love grows over time, not in a bar with some ale in your hands and a girl with nice eyes that light up her face. To think he’d ever thought it plain. She has the most beautiful face he’s ever seen. _But it could be love,_ he thinks as he stares at her. _It could grow into love._

“I hope your husband deserves you,” he whispers to her.

“And I hope your wife deserves you,” she replies. “I hope…I hope there’s as much love in your marriage as in your parents.”

Ben swallows. _They loved each other more than they loved me,_ he thinks. He does not mourn his father. This stranger would surely hate him for that, and he has already vowed to himself that any child of his will never feel the pangs he so frequently felt when his parents ignored him in favor of one another, or whatever task they had to attend to.

“And I wish the same for you,” he tells her, voice thick.

A pained expression crosses her face. “No,” she says, “Do not wish that. My parents did not love one another.”

“Forgive me,” he says at once, ducking his head.

“You did not know,” she responds. She takes another sip of her ale and then says, “They died when I was very young, and I have few memories of them, which is probably for the best, since what memories I had were only ever of fights, of the two of them yelling at one another.”

 _I’m not used to being wanted,_ she had told him. He understood now. If he’d felt neglect at times from his parents, what must she have felt. “Did you—do you have siblings?”

She shakes her head. “Just me.”

“Just you.” Perhaps he is drunk, but he lifts a hand to run the backs of his fingers over her cheek, smoothing some of her hair out of her face. She wears it in three little buns tied behind her head. He wonders if that’s the style where she is from, or if it is merely convenient. Regardless—it fits her perfectly and he imagines pulling it loose from each of them and burying his nose in it.

She closes her eyes when he touches her, and breathes in sharply.

He had not noticed how warm it was in the room until his skin touched hers, had not noticed how loudly his heart could beat until he could feel his skin. Could she hear it? Surely she must be able to.

It is his turn to gasp when she reaches a hand up to take his, and for a moment he is afraid she’ll drag it away, but instead the tips of her fingers rest on his palm, feather light and Ben has never seen anything quite like the light in her eyes.

He is standing so close to her. He wants never to stand further from her than he is now.

“I want—” he begins but doesn’t know how to finish. _To have you, to hold you, to kiss you, to love you…_

“Not here,” she whispers. “Not where we can be seen.”

That is wise, he realizes. Somewhere, he is sure, Poe is watching him. Or perhaps Poe is too wrapped up in whatever activities he had chosen to distract himself while Ben sat sullenly in the tavern as was his wont. “I know where we can go,” he whispers, and his heart is in his throat when she drops his hand from her face and squeezes it.

* * *

The lake is quiet at night. Ben has come here before, when he has needed to breathe, when he wants to get away from everything. By the lake, he can be Ben, and not Ben Solo, not Prince Ben—just Ben.

And tonight, he wants nothing more than to be just Ben as he leads her out of town.

“You’re not going to try and kill me,” she jokes. “I should warn you I am nasty in a fight.”

“I would never be so foolish,” Ben tells her. “Though I rather suspect that I could more than overpower you if the desire crossed my mind.”

“Is that so my lord?” And suddenly she was in front of him, walking backward, that grin back on her face.

“Lord?” he smirks. “And how do you know I’m a lord?”

“Your speech is far too fine for someone uneducated, and your bearing is one of a warrior. The combination suggests a lord—especially knowing what I know about…” she does not say his bride to be. She’s watching him closely. “I’m not wrong, am I?”

“You are,” he smirks, putting the thought of his wedding tomorrow from his mind. _One last night of freedom,_ Poe had described it as. He has never felt so free in his life. He is positively flying, drunk on her smile.

“Well then, you must be a knight,” she says, undeterred. “For you cannot be a—”

But whatever she was going to say is lost in a shriek as he darts forward and wraps an arm around her waist and throws her over one of his shoulders. She’s laughing and wriggling and a moment later she’s pulled herself loose and has landed catlike on the ground. He can still feel the weight of her in his arms—lighter and heavier than he’d expected all at once. She is smaller than he, but he thought he felt muscles to her beneath her dress which he had not expected.

“My lord, are you going to dishonor me so?” she teases but before she lets him respond she’s standing on the tips of her toes and her lips are pressed to his and he almost drops the basket with the wine he’d gotten from the tavern because it’s the first time he’s ever been kissed, the first time anyone’s come close to wanting to kiss him for more than his throne and her lips are soft.

He panics, unsure what to do, but when he pulls away to look at her, she has a nervous look on her face. “I’ve never kissed anyone before,” she confesses. “I don’t know if I did it right.”

“I’ve never kissed anyone either,” he admits. “So I couldn’t tell you.”

A breathy laugh escapes her lips. “Well, that’s something, I suppose. If I was terrible you wouldn’t know.”

“You could never be terrible.”

She rolls her eyes. “That line was terrible.”

He kisses her again, his free hand finding her waist again but to pull her closer to him this time. Instinct takes over as he sucks at her plump lower lip, drawing it between his and running his tongue along it. She sighs and tries it on him and it feels better than he’d been expecting.

She breathes into him as he learns how to kiss her lips, and with her breath he feels as though he is coming alive. He had not known, had not understood, that he could feel this alive. Her hands twine around his neck, rubbing his hair between her fingers as she pulls herself closer to him. _I will compare her to you,_ he knows.

Shame fills him.

He should have waited for tomorrow, for Rey to be the first and only woman he will ever kiss. His black heart had only ever led him astray.

But whoever this girl is, whoever she wants to be to him…that is more important. Rey can have Prince Ben Solo. This stranger can take what parts of Ben she wants. He’ll give them to her gladly.

When she pulls away from him they are both panting. His heart has never thumped so quickly in his chest, not even when he is fighting. His manhood is growing stiff in his trousers and were it anyone else, he’d feel shame at that. But for her, somehow—somehow he is not afraid.

“Red or white?” he asks her.

She glances down at the basket of wine in his hand. “Red,” she says.

He leads her to a tree by the lake and uncorks the bottle before pausing. “I…I thought to bring wine, but not glasses.”

“How dare you.” She feigns outrage, but she is smiling too much for him to think she remotely means it. She takes the wine bottle from his hand and takes a gulp straight from it. She makes a face.

“The rumors are true. Your wine leaves much to be desired.” But her eyes twinkle as she passes the bottle to him. He drinks too, wondering if the wine tastes like her now.

He leans it against the tree, and wishes he knew what to say. He can’t think of any words now that he’s looking at her again, her sunkissed skin dappled by the moonlight.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, and reaches his hand out again to caress her cheek. “So very beautiful.”

“So are you,” she says and he shakes his head. He’s too tall, has big ears, and his nose has never felt like it fits his too-long face, but she looks affronted that he would deny it and a moment later she’s shoved him back onto the ground. “You are,” she insists and she’s scooted herself through the grass to look down at him, her head eclipsing the moon in the sky overhead. “So beautiful, so very beautiful. I see it in your eyes, in your heart—”

He darts his head up to kiss her, resting his weight on his elbows, and he is lost. On the morrow he will be celebrating his marriage, but he will be mourning the loss of this strange woman. He will truly feel as though he has lost a freedom he has never known. _I cannot blame her for that. I did this to myself._

“If I had a beautiful heart, I would not be here,” he tells her lips. “I would not besmirch the vows I have yet to make, dishonor the woman I—”

But she keeps kissing him. “You will honor her starting tomorrow,” she says, not knowing how true the words are. “Tonight you want me, and I am not used to being wanted. Will you break my heart?”

 _Never,_ he kisses into the skin of her neck. _Never_ , he kisses into her collarbone as he pulls her down so she is lying at his side. _Never_ he kisses into the skin under her chin, hearing her gasp and feeling her hands weave through her hair. He kisses his way back up her neck and finds her lips again, tasting of wine and ale and her, and pulls her over him. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he tells her. “I can’t promise that I will be—”

“I want you. I’ll take you as you are, not as what you think I deserve,” she says firmly. “I want you. Make me forget everything else.”

And by god he’ll try. He’ll try if it’s the death of him.

He is uncomfortably hard in his trousers now as he rolls her onto her back, and the black voice in his mind tells him that he should ravish her, sheath himself in her to the hilt.

But it turns out there’s another way to silence that voice in his mind, and it’s kissing her skin, letting himself hear the little moans she makes as his lips—by far the boldest part of him—trail kisses along her neckline, over the tops of her breasts.

He won’t ravish her. He won’t even sheath himself inside her, though he knows his manhood will complain at that. She’s to wed—and he is to, and if there’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that if he enters her tonight, he’ll never be able to bring himself to love Rey.

He nuzzles between her breasts and looks up at her. Her lips are parted, her eyes are closed, her head tilted lazily to one side and when she opens her eyes, her gaze is peaceful, it is so trusting as she unweaves a hand from his hair and tugs at the ties at the front of her bodice.

Her breasts are small. Her breasts are perfect. He can’t stop staring at them, the small nipples that are a deep dusty color whose shade he can’t quite tell in the moonlight. The same color as her lips, he thinks. He watches as the cool air of the night makes them pucker. He brushes a hand along the underside of one of them and she gasps. His eyes fly to hers and he sees hunger on her face. He brushes the same spot again and she moans this time, and he has never known his heart to beat so unevenly. It is as though it is trying to beat in time with his and with hers at once.

Her hand is back in his hair and she is pulling his head up to her face again, and that hunger from her eyes is in her lips now. She nudges her tongue against his lips and a moment later she has gained entry and it is such an odd sensation—her tongue rubbing its way against his, but he thinks he might just like it as he does his best to match the motion. Drool drips down from their mouths and lands on her breast and he tries to wipe it away with his thumb and she gasps into his mouth. “Oh,” she pants as she extricates her tongue from his. “That felt…”

He rubs his thumb over her nipple again and she bites her lip and he can see in her eyes that there’s a slight disappointment, as though it was not quite what she’d wanted. It is because she wants it that he feels bold enough to kiss his way down her chest and take one of those puckered, dusty nipples into his mouth. Immediately she moans and her hands tighten in his hair as he circles his tongue around it for no other reason than because he thinks that’s the right thing to do.

She’s moving, he realizes. He is at her side as he suckles at her skin, but her hips are rocking back and forth and he swallows because he knows why—he knows why all too well. His own hips are doing the same. And he knows he can’t—knows he won’t—but he also knows that there are other things to do with a woman than just be inside her. He may have never touched a woman until this night, but he is not deaf and he’s not stupid. He pauses in kissing her and looks up at her again from between her breasts. Blearily, she opens her eyes again.

“What would you have of me?” he asks her quietly, his voice barely more than the leaves rustling in the wind. “I won’t dishonor you, but I…I would look at you, I would touch you if you’d let me.”

Her eyes leave him for a moment to search the stars for answers. He sees traces of pained confusion there. “I feel it too,” he whispers to her, so quietly he’s not sure she can hear him. She takes a deep breath and looks back at him, her face determined and when she speaks her voice is strong as steel.

“I trust you not to dishonor me. And the rest…I trust you with the rest as well.”

He kisses the skin above her breastbone, brings his own lips up to hers to taste the heaven that is her mouth once more, before he sits up and—hardly believing his own daring, reaches for the hem of her skirt.

He watches her face carefully as he pulls at the fabric, searching for any sign that she has changed her mind. Her eyes are on his hand, and he does not miss the brief moment that they flicker to his own waist where his cock is visibly hard. Then she looks up at his face and he sees that stubborn jut of her jaw as well. “I’d look at you too,” she tells him, and he pauses in the slow lifting of her skirt.

He cannot refuse her—he is too far gone. But it is a more graceful act to lift a skirt than it is to take off his boots and trousers. Unless she doesn’t need the trousers fully off.

He drops her skirt and his hands move to his belt, undoing it slowly. He unlaces the ties at the waist and then pushes the linen down his legs, his cock springing free.

Her breath hitches as she stares at it, and he watches as her eyes seem to grow more heated. For a moment, he thinks he’ll lose himself because she licks her lips and looks up at him and tugs her skirt up the rest of the way, spreading her legs wide so that he can see her as clearly as the moonlight will allow.

Buried beneath dark curls, he sees glistening flesh and he leans forward to see it more closely. The first thought that comes to his mind is that the folds of the flesh reminds him of a rose’s petals, though he has never known a rose to smell like the heady scent coming from her sex. With a trembling hand, he reaches his hand out and runs a finger between the outer folds of her. Her breath catches. He glances up. She does not tell him to stop, but what if she is afraid to? But no—no she is bold. She would, he is sure. And she has already said she trusts him.

Ever so gently, he rubs at the soft, hot skin between her legs, watching as nectar seeps out of her, listening to the way her breath mixes with the whispering wind, the lapping water. She is of the earth, a nymph in whose bright eyes he forgets his sins, and there is no prayer he could utter to capture how perfect the sounds of her moans are when he thinks he has found a spot she likes at the top of her slit.

He watches her face as he rolls the little nub between his fingers, watches as her lips tremble, as her chest heaves more quickly. Her nipples are so very puckered now, and he leans forward to suckle at one once again, groaning as his manhood brushes against her leg, the heat of it sending a wave of heat straight to his balls. Her hands find his hair again, and she whispers, “don’t stop,” and it is music to him as he continues to rub and lick at her. He kisses his way across her chest once again, and then, because his lips are ever the boldest part of him, because he knows all too well the way she had reacts when he draws her nipples between his lips, because he knows the scent of her and wants to _taste_ , he brings his lips to hover just above her cunt and licks along it before laying his tongue flat against the nub.

She cries out, and Ben smiles into her at the sound of it. That he has made her make that sound is intoxicating, but then again, she is intoxicating. How sweet she tastes, how full his heart is of her, how he loves the texture of her skin beneath his tongue and—

He jerks his head away and his hand reaches for his tongue. There’s a hair there, an oddly ticklish barb that is thoroughly distracting. He fumbles at it, and she lifts her head curiously, watching as he tries to scratch it out of his mouth. She raises a hand to her own mouth, and he sees a blush creep up her cheeks as she tries not to laugh. He’s lets out a laugh too, hoping to hide his own embarrassment at it, especially when he does pull the offending hair away.

She bites her lip, and arches an eyebrow, and he smirks at her before bending his head to her sex again, hoping that another of her hairs won’t find his tongue—especially as she’s moaning now.

Her hips buck into his face and her hands are in his hair again, tighter now than they were before, and he loses himself in the taste of her once more, heady and tangy and perfect. She is saying…something, he thinks. He can’t tell, or maybe she isn’t saying actual words—more nonsensical moans as he licks at her and knows that no fine wine will ever taste to him half so good as what he drinks from her, no music will ever sound so sweet as the noises she is making as he tastes her, no prayer will ever sound half so holy as her cry of, “God,” before her sex begins to throb beneath his lips and she pulls herself away from him, breathing hard as her hands go limp in his hair.

He sits up, his shoulders hunched as he watches her. A flush has crept up her chest, has filled her cheeks and no one in the world will ever be as beautiful as she is lying there open-mouthed, breasts hanging out of her bodice and skirts hiked up above her waist. When her eyes flutter open to look at him, there is such a satisfaction in them that he can’t help but feel pleased with himself.

“So beautiful,” he whispers to her, and she bites her lip, as though suddenly aware of the state of things. She sits up and reaches out a hand to take one of his, pulling him closer to her so that she can kiss him.

“Do I really taste like that?” she asks, pulling away from his lips.

“Yes,” he says.

“That’s worse than the wine.”

“Luckily you haven’t had to drink it. I happen to like the vintage.”

She gives him a look as though expecting mockery, but the defensiveness fades into wonder.

She looks down at her hands, before jerking her head back up to look at him. “Can I touch you?” she asks him, and he wants to laugh.

“Do with me as you will,” he tells her. “I’m yours.” _Only if for tonight._

But the bitterness of that thought vanishes the moment her hand curls around his cock and he wishes instantly he weren’t kneeling because he almost falls backward from it. Her hand is warm, and soft, and he has palmed his own cock enough to know what size it is in his own hand—but in hers it looks enormous.

“I hadn’t expected the skin to be so soft,” she whispers, looking up at him. “Men are always calling them swords I’d assumed they’d be rougher.”

Ben doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t think he is able to say anything at all, and she smirks at him, knowing exactly why as she pushes him back onto the grass and before he even knows what’s happening, she is _licking_ along the vein that runs along the underside of it and god if his stomach doesn’t writhe at that, if his breath doesn’t stop.

He understands now why she had held onto his hair, because the only thing he can do is weave his fingers through hers, pulling it loose as he’d imagined in the tavern from its little buns and he chokes out what he thinks is an attempt at an endearment when she swirls her tongue along the tip of him, tasting whatever it is he’s leaked onto himself. “I like that more,” she tells him, looking up at him, her lips hovering over the tip of his cock. “More my flavor.”

And before he can respond she’s sucking him into her mouth and he will never forget—not until he dies—the way it looks with his manhood protruding from her lips. He will never so long as he lives forget the way her hand runs along his shaft sending fire through him because her hand is so much softer than his own and some of the saliva from her mouth is dripping down his length and she catches it as she rubs him and is that what it feels like to be inside a woman? All the way to the hilt? Men have japed that he hasn’t known what he was missing, and perhaps that’s true, but he wouldn’t change any of it if it meant that he can lose himself in the warmth rolling through him from her lips, from her hands, from her eyes as she looks up at him and he sees something that might be love as he tries to choke out a warning mere seconds before his balls constrict and send seed through him and into her as his mind goes blissfully blank.

It is over too quickly, and part of him is ashamed. He should have lasted longer—he has lasted longer. She has unmanned him, and as she swallows his seed down she sees a fierce pride in her eyes. Perhaps she doesn’t mind then. Perhaps only he minds, because he could have lain like that forever with her tongue on him.

She curls next to him, and he wraps an arm around her shoulder and pulls her to his chest, breathing in the scent of her sweat, feeling the way her heart beats beneath her skin.

How long they lie there, he does not know.

What he does know is that, after a time, she sits up and begins to lace up the front of her dress again.

“I should go,” she whispers.

“Can I walk you home?” he asks, sitting up as well, shifting slightly to tug his trousers back up over his hips and tuck his limp cock away.

“No,” she says and her voice is thick, tearful. She won’t look at him. He doesn’t like that. “No, let me fade into dreams. Forget that I am real and not something sweet from a good night’s rest.”

“I can’t,” he tells her fiercely. “I’ll never forget you.”

She’s still not looking at him, and he knows it is because she does not wish him to see her cry.

He tilts her chin up and there they are—her bright eyes, too bright now with tears. “Nor I you,” she whispers. She kisses him one last time and stands. “You are my sweetest dream.”

She leaves him there by the lake and when she is gone, he runs his hands through his hair.

He is bereft.

That is the only way to describe it. He is bereft of her, mourning the future that could never have been his because by the lake he is Ben, but everywhere else he is Ben Solo—and she is not Rey.

He swallows.

She’ll be there tomorrow, at the wedding—of course she will be if she’s one of Rey’s ladies. She’ll look at him and know and hate him for lying. He should have thought of that before they’d left the tavern, should have thought with his mind and not his yearning heart. She’ll watch him swear himself to her princess and he won’t be able to be a dream—no more than she will because she’ll know him, and he’ll know her. She might even be in the room when he consummates his marriage along with the other witnesses and his blood runs cold.

And he had thought there was nothing worse that his black heart could lead him to than the death of his father.

Somewhere in the distance, he hears a bell tolling midnight.

It is his wedding day.

He has never dreaded it more.


	2. Chapter 2

When Rey is out of sight of the lake, she breaks into a run, going as fast as she can.

She cannot outrun the memory of him, and perhaps if she sprints, she will not forget what it was for her heart to race as he had kissed at her sex, the elation she’d felt as he’d come apart on her tongue. She runs until she is gasping for air and does not stop until she has reached the manse in which she is staying before her wedding. The front gate is locked, but Rey has always been good at climbing and there is a trellis with flowers growing in it beneath her window so up she climbs, heaving herself into the bedchamber she has slept in for the past three days, ever since she had arrived here with Unkar Plutt.

She strips off the clothes—mercifully, she had worn a dark dress that won’t show signs of the grass and dirt he’d lain her down in, she hopes—and finds a wash cloth which she dips into a basin of water and rubs against her sex.

Later today—for the bells had rung midnight as she’d run—she will be wed, and tonight, her husband will take her. She washes away his kisses from her cunt, from her breasts, from her face, ignoring the way her chest is heaving and tears are falling from her eyes. _It was just a night,_ she tells herself. _Just a night, and just a fantasy._

Yet her heart aches.

When she deems herself clean enough, she folds the dress carefully, and places it on a chair. She finds her nightshift and dons it, then crawls into bed and prays that she won’t lie awake, anxious that Unkar will know what she has done, anxious that this man from a dream will haunt her until dawn.

But sleep takes her quickly after she’d run so far and come apart under the stars, and when Rey dreams, she dreams of a tall man with dark hair and eyes that understood her soul better than she understood it herself.

* * *

 

Rey wakes to the door to her bedroom opening and Unkar standing over her, glowering.

“You were out late last night,” he tells her. He sounds angry.

“I wasn’t,” Rey lies.

“You weren’t home before the guards locked the front gate.”

“Then how have I been asleep all this time?” she demands, hoping he hadn’t thought to check her bedroom after the gates were locked at ten. He narrows his eyes. Rey braces herself, preparing for a shout.

But it does not come.

“The queen has sent ladies to dress you,” he says. “And the maids are preparing a bath for you.” He turns on his heel and leaves and Rey sags with relief. He doesn’t want to shout while Queen Leia’s people are in the manse and will hear him. If there’s one good thing to be said about today, it is that she will never have to answer to Unkar Plutt ever again. _I pray Ben Solo is not worse._

More than once the night before, she’d thought of asking her tall stranger what his prince was like. She’s glad she never did. If she had, then perhaps he would never have kissed her, would never have led her to that lake and melted her with his tongue and fingers.

 _I must put that thought from my mind,_ she tells herself firmly as the serving girls bring a large tub into her bedroom. For all she knows, Ben Solo will expect a blushing virgin princess, and while perhaps her stranger had not dishonored her completely the night before, but she had willingly— _eagerly_ —taken his cock in her mouth.

When the serving girls have finished filling the tub, Rey strips off her night shift and glances at herself in the mirror. There are no traces of his lips on her breasts. She’d feared that there might be, but she does not bruise so easily. She sinks with relief into the tub and closes her eyes and tries not to think of the lapping water of the lake as she scrubs her skin and washes her hair.

There’s a knock at the door. “Princess,” comes an unfamiliar woman’s voice.

“Come in,” Rey calls, climbing from the bath and reaching for a towel.

Two unfamiliar women enter. They have the look of sisters and are wearing some of the finest gowns that Rey has ever seen. Both dip into low curtseys and Rey wishes she weren’t completely naked behind the towel clutched to her chest.

“Princess, my name is Paige,” says the taller of the two. “And this is my sister Rose. Our queen sent us to help dress you for the wedding, since you have no ladies of your own.”

Her tall stranger had not known that. He had immediately assumed she was one of her own ladies. How relieved she had been—it had meant she could speak so freely.

“I thank you,” Rey says.

Her hair is pressed dry with towels and the gown is produced from a wardrobe—fine silver silk dotted with pale yellow stones and baby pearls, and embroidered with white sunstars. It is by far the finest thing she has ever worn, and when she sits so that the sisters can weave her hair into ornate braids, Rey cannot stop looking at herself in the mirror. Unwillingly, she thinks of how her stranger pulled her hair loose from its buns the night before, the way he had threaded his fingers through her hair as she had sucked at him, how he had groaned when he’d spurted into her mouth.

“What is the prince like? Do you know him well?” Rey asks breathily, determined not to think of her stranger any more today. His memory has to fade with time—it has to. She must not compare him to Ben.

“He is reserved,” Paige tells her, and she sees her glance at her sister in the mirror.

“He does his best,” Rose adds, smiling as she ties one of the braids. “But I cannot say there are many who know him well. His mother does, naturally, and Sir Poe Dameron is his friend from youth, and Poe is not one to misplace his confidence.”

Rey nods as Paige comes around to face her, leaning against the mirror, a pot of powder in her hand. “He will treat you well,” Paige says gently. “He is not a cruel man. He had—had a counselor who tried to make him so, but the man is dead now and Ben…”

“Ben what?” Rey prompts her as Paige brushes powder onto her face. Once again, she notes the sisters glancing at one another.

“I don’t wish to give a false impression,” Paige says. “He does his best to be good, and succeeds most of the time. He thinks carefully about what goodness means, but doubts himself far too much. His counselor shook him deeply in his youth, but he does his best.”

Rey frowns, but even as she does so, Rose appears before her with red for her lips. “Think not on his darkness,” she advises, and there’s a gentle sincerity to her voice, “Remember that he works hard to undo it—that he would free himself of it, not sink into it.”

That speaks well of him, she thinks. There’s an honesty to these sisters, and with a rush she is grateful that they are there, that these are the answers they gave her, and not endless praises of things she could not care less about. Whether he is strong, or handsome, or gallant—no, she cares not for that. Whether he understands the secrets of his own heart…that speaks to his character far more than anything else.

 _I should hate to be hated,_ her stranger had told her the night before. How her heart had twisted at those words, understanding them all too well. _I will not hate Ben Solo,_ she tells herself. _Not for youthful indiscretions, nor for not being my stranger._

It calms her for the first time since she’d left the lake side.

When her hair is finished and her face has been properly painted, Rose pulls a silver veil of lace and baby pearls from her basket. “This was worn by the queen and by her mother on the day of their weddings,” Rose tells her. “She would like you to wear it—if you are willing.”

It is the most beautiful thing that she has ever seen and the sisters place it over her hair and face before securing it with a silver circlet.

She looks in the mirror. Her face is hidden, and she looks like the moon as she gets to her feet. Last of all, she steps into a pair of new shoes, slightly heeled and fixed with more baby pearls and the pale yellow beads that are sewn into her gown. It all feels too fine, too rich.

But she supposes it is her wedding day, and she’s to marry a prince, and in marrying him, trade routes will be secured and Unkar will be pleased and she…

Well, she’ll know soon enough what it will mean for her.

Bells begin to ring from every bell tower in the city as she leaves the manse and climbs onto a silver horse—another gift from the queen and her son—that will bring her to the sanctuary. The sky is clear and the road is lined with curious onlookers, many of whom seem disappointed that Rey is veiled. She raises her hand in greeting to them, and a few of them wave back. Some throw flower petals at her, and as she gets closer to the sanctuary, one or more calls out to her in welcome.

When they reach the sanctuary, Rose and Paige help her down from her horse and straighten the skirts of her gown. Then Rose beams at her and squeezes her hand. “I know we’ve only just met,” Rose tells her, “but I am glad that you will be at court soon. I know we’ll be friends.”

Rey gives Rose a brief hug. She can feel that too. The girl’s honesty shines in her face and Rey values honesty—especially since courts can be full of liars. She gives Paige a hug as well, and both sisters curtsey and make their way into the chapel.

Rey takes a deep breath and turns to Unkar. Whatever anger he had felt at her this morning is gone from his face as he offers her his arm and she rests her hand on it, trying not to feel revulsion at it. _If he were my father, would it be different?_ she wonders. How she cannot wait to be free of him forever. For that alone, she hopes she can like Ben Solo.

She doesn’t say a word to Unkar as he leads her up the wide stone steps of the sanctuary and he doesn’t say a word to her. Soon, they will be nothing to one another, and she knows his relief is palpable—just as hers is.

The doors swing open and she is met with a wave of color—courtiers and nobles and wealthy merchants all in their finest garb, celebrating the wedding of their prince.

Rey cannot help it—she cannot. She searches the face of every man she sees, looking for her stranger. A lord, or a knight—she had never determined which—he should be here, tall enough to see over the heads of most of the gathered guests. But there are too many people, perhaps, or he is sleeping off the drink from the night before.

The further down the long aisle she gets, the closer she gets to where she sees the prince, in a darker grey than she, kneeling before the altar on a red velvet cushion. He does not look behind him—he stares straight ahead. _He is reserved,_ Paige had told her. And devout, perhaps?

Her heart quickens. With every step, she notices more and more about him—the breadth of his shoulder, the length of his torso, the soft wave to his thick dark hair. Even kneeling, he is very tall, but no—no it can’t be. She is letting her dreams run off with her mind, letting her heart pump hope through her veins as it had from the moment he’d said he wanted to kiss her in the tavern the night before.

Unkar releases her arm, makes a show of kissing her on each cheek over her veil before she approaches the red velvet pillow at Ben Solo’s side and sinks to kneel down next to him.

She chances a glance at him through her veil and feels tears well in her eyes because it’s _him_ , it truly is. It’s him, she’s not dreaming, and if she’s gone mad it’s a happy madness for the man at her side is her stranger with the sweet lips and the eyes that had seen into her soul.

He looks like he is trying so hard not to be sad, not to be frightened, his hand resting on the scripture before him. He looks at her out of the side of his eye but upon finding her veiled looks away and she knows why, _knows_ why. _Ben_ , she wants to say to him, to whisper to him, wants him to know who is under the veil, that last night wasn’t a dream, that she has never felt so much elation in her life but before she can so much as open her mouth the priest has begun to speak, and Ben opens his scripture and Rey fumbles on the bench before her to open the one that lies there too.

The writing in it is beautiful, she notices. The illuminations are artful, as she follows along the prayers that the priest is saying. She keeps peeking at Ben out of the corner of her eyes, unable to believe that this is real.

He wears a ruby signet ring on his left hand now. He had not worn it the night before, just as she had not worn any of her regal identification. His hands are so big, and with a flush, she remembers the way he’d thumbed at her breast the night before, the way he’d stroked at her swollen, wanting sex. Her gut flutters when she thinks that she’ll be able to touch him again, that he’ll be hers, and she’ll be his, when they’d both been so afraid the night before. She wants to laugh, but the idea of laughing as the priest intones prayers sanctifying their bond would likely not go over well.

Ben gets to his feet and she realizes she hasn’t been paying attention. He looks down at her, and holds out a hand. She takes it, feeling warmth spread from his palm to hers as he helps her to stand. She looks up at him, wondering if he’ll recognize her hands, but there is no flash of recognition in her eyes and she knows it was folly to hope. Hands are not necessarily distinctive, after all. He is looking at her hand rather than her face, as though he cannot bear to look at her at all. _Do not be heartbroken in me,_ she wants to tell him, _do not be afraid of me Ben._

The priest takes a ribbon as white as snow and wraps it three times around their hands. He bids them circle one another three times, and they do, hands bound and Rey watches him as his eyes flick out to the crowd. _I am here, not there,_ she wants to tell him, trying not to be annoyed. She knows why he is looking, after all—she has no one to be jealous of. She had looked for him too.

When they finish their circling, he looks at her again. His expression is guarded and Rey’s throat is so dry as the priest recites the vow that he must swear, that he will be hers, and they will be one soul until death takes one of them. His voice carries throughout the sanctuary when he proclaims that he will, and Rey cannot help it, she squeezes his hand. He blinks at her, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips as he squeezes back.

The priest turns to her and she’s barely even paying attention to his words, which she knows is likely not a good thing for marriage vows but she’s watching Ben’s face closely, her heartbeat growing faster and faster and faster with anticipation. Can he feel how her palm is beginning to sweat in his? Can he feel her heart beating in their clasped hands?

The priest finishes, and Rey takes a deep breath, and says as clearly and determinedly as she has every said anything in her life,

“I do.”

She watches as his face stiffens, as he inhales sharply, nostrils flaring, as his eyes bore into the veil across her face as if trying to see through it now for the first time since she had settled down on her knees at his side. She smiles, and her eyes prickle with happy tears as the priest declares them one flesh, one blood, one soul, and the hand that is not bound to hers raises to lift the veil clumsily and throw it back over her face and he’s breathing hard, his lips parted, his eyes bright as he looks at her, smiling up at him, happy tears threatening to fall and ruin the makeup that Paige and Rose had painted on her.

He cups her cheek, and bends his head and when he kisses her the taste of him is so familiar, that her heart expands even more in her chest. It is not a perfunctory kiss, a dutiful one, nor a nervous one. It is a kiss that could go on forever—might in fact be doing just that for all she knows as she reaches her free hand up to rest on his chest.

When he breaks the kiss he rests his forehead against hers for the briefest moment before turning to face the gathered crowd. Rey does as well, and she knows she’s beaming, knows he is too, knows that their joy isn’t fake at all. The priest undoes the ribbon and hands each of them the scriptures they had been reading from before her hand moves from Ben’s to rest in the crook of his arm.

They make their way through the sanctuary and when they are outside, cheers greet them, and people throwing more flowers. Ben helps her onto her silver horse before climbing into the saddle of his large black one and the two of them ride side by side through the city to the castle.

“Did you know?” he asks her quietly as they ride, his gaze still bright, his expression filled with wonder.

“No,” she says. “No, I did not. Not until I saw you.”

He reaches a hand for hers and then raises it to his lips. The street around them echoes with cheers, but not a single cry is louder than Rey’s own heart.

* * *

 

They sit at a table entirely to themselves as music plays throughout the hall. In theory, it is because this is the first time the newlyweds will have spoken to one another, and so privacy, to an extent, is in order. They are served each course before anyone else in the hall, and it is for them that the singers sing.

Their conversation varies between interruptions from wellwishers.

“What is your favorite dessert?” he asks her, as a pigeon pie is brought to them, and Rey takes a bite.

“Marzipan,” she tells him. “And yours?”

“Oranges,” he replies.

“Oranges?”

He shrugs. “I can’t explain it. But it’s what I like.”

“He used to throw the overripe ones out the window when he was a boy,” the queen says, coming over and standing over her son, resting a hand on his shoulder. He flushes, and she smiles down at Rey. “He said he liked the squelching they made when they hit the ground. You’ll find that he doesn’t throw his food anymore, though. We trained it out of him after a time.”

Rey laughs, and Ben’s flush deepens. His mother presses a kiss to the top of his head. “You’ll understand why I must one day,” she tells him firmly. “When you have a son of your own.”

Rey sees him stiffen and look at her furtively. He doesn’t say anything and in the silence, Leia directs her next question to Rey. “The castle is big, and there are many people here. Rose and Paige have offered to be your companions.”

“I should like that very much,” Rey beams up at Leia before turning to look out at the hall. She sees Rose sitting at a table with several people, speaking animatedly while her sister laughs and drinks from her wine glass.

“Good,” Leia says. “I wouldn’t want you to be lonely—I know you brought no ladies of your own.”

“No, I did not,” she says, glancing at Ben and nudging at his leg under the table. His lips twitch and his eyes are glowing at her.

Leia watches her with shrewd eyes, and Rey has the distinct impression that Leia Organa had missed nothing over the course of the past several hours—how her son had gone from dejected aloofness to positive ecstasy in a matter of seconds, how even now he gives Rey familiar smiles though this is the first time they had met and they had been talking about their favorite sweets when she’d interrupted them.

When she leaves, Rey murmurs to Ben, “Do you think she knows?”

“My mother has a frustrating habit of knowing everything,” he replies. “If she doesn’t know, she suspects something, I’m sure of that much—but since it is in alignment with what she wants she won’t comment on it. At least, not right away.” He lets out an amused huff. “She gave me at least three talks this morning about how I needed to put my best foot forward, and how I couldn’t blame an innocent girl for my frustration with the situation.”

“Little did she know,” Rey teased.

“Oh I am sure she has since connected at least some of it. She’s clever enough to have run rings around the lords who think that a woman’s place is not on the throne in her own right, and—” he cuts himself short and looks away from her, his jaw twitching. She’d noticed that jaw twitch the night before as though he was chewing on a problem before speaking when he is nervous about something.

She reaches for his hand and squeezes it. “I won’t hate you,” she whispers to him. “I promise.”

“You might.” He is not looking at her.

“I couldn’t.” She knows it to be true. She knows that love comes with time, and that this is likely more infatuation than anything else, but down in the depths of her soul she knows that Ben Solo could not make her hate him, whatever he’d done. _That counselor that Paige mentioned…_

“She was the one who pieced together the influence I was under when no one else would,” he said. “It’s a long tale, and I’d sooner not go into it today. But I have not…not always been as I am now.”

Rey squeezes his hand. “I have not always been as _I_ am now,” she tells him, thinking back to years of miserable hope. “When we are not in a room full of people staring at us, we’ll learn more of one another. I’m not afraid, Ben. Do not fear me.”

He gazes at her in wonder, as though she is the moon in the sky, and all the stars in the heavens. It is almost too much for her to bear—for no one has ever looked at her with that much…desire is the wrong word for it isn’t desire. He may desire her—she knows he does, in fact—but this is not that. This is that wanting that she had seen in his eyes the night before. That need to hold her, to have her be there with him always, to never leave her behind.

“How is it that this is happening?” he asks her. “How is it that you are real, and you are mine?”

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Rey says. “In truth my heart stops whenever you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like _that_.”

He keeps looking at her like that, and then, very quickly, leans forward to her, his face close enough that she can feel his breath against her skin. His eyes are blazing and perhaps if she’d not already kissed him, not already loved him, she would be afraid. But she is not. No, the blaze leaps from his eyes to hers and it pools in her stomach before spreading down between her legs.

“Shall we dance?” he asks her, and her breath hitches. “Or would you sooner skip the dancing all together?”

Rey looks out across the room and before she tells him the latter, she remembers Unkar Plutt warning her of the consummation ceremony.

“Will there be others there?” she asks. “Later. When we—” she swallows.

“Do you want there to be?” he asks her.

“No. I just want you.”

He gives her a smile. “Then there won’t be. I swear it.” He stands and holds out a hand to her. “Let’s dance.”

* * *

They do not dance for long. As more and more people fill the dance floor, as Rey finds herself exchanging partners as the dance commands, the more she wants to be alone with him. She wants quiet, she wants solitude, she wants to be by the lake outside of the city.

After the fourth dance, she notices that Ben has disappeared from the dancers, and as she weaves her way through the men and women she sees him standing by the door, watching her quietly. When she locks eyes with him, he raises his eyebrows for a moment and she understands. _Easier to sneak away when everyone thinks you’re dancing._

So she extracts herself and meets him by the door to the banquet hall, taking his hand as he leads her out into the corridor, up a set of stairs that takes them to the third floor of the keep, then down another hallway until they’ve reached a bedchamber. There are candles lit within it, and she sees a line of chairs that makes her stomach lurch. Behind her, Ben bars the door.

“We can move them,” he says, and they do, shoving them into a corner by the window. There’s a view of the gardens below, and Rey looks down at the springtime flowers blooming.

“Did you throw the oranges out of this window?” she asks him, teasing.

“More frequently it was the one in my mother’s solar,” he snorts, coming to stand behind her. “That one faced the courtyard, and so they were more likely to splatter—or hit someone. It was always the most fun when they hit someone.” She looks up at him. His eyes are dancing with mischievous laughter and she can imagine him young and hooting with laughter for there was nothing that the poor recipient of splattered, overripe orange could do when it was their prince who had thrown it.  

He wraps his arm around her waist and his lips press against her neck, pulling her back to his chest. She brings his palm to her lips and kisses it. She turns and wraps her arms around his neck, her lips finding his, her tongue twining with his, kissing him until she feels as though she cannot breathe anymore, so full of him are her lungs.

“I want this off you,” he growls into her lips, running his hands over her sides.

“Well, you may have to help me—I can’t reach the laces in the back.”

“Gladly.” He nips at her lips and she shivers with delight at the sensation.

He is more confident tonight than he was last night—but that doesn’t surprise her. She is too. Knowing it’s him, knowing that they’ve already known satisfaction at one another’s touch makes all of this so different than it could have been. She wonders, briefly, what it would have been like had the night before not happened. She would be anxiously watching his every move as Rose and Paige helped her undress and a row of people prepared to watch the two of them consummate their marriage.

Instead it is Ben undressing her, kissing along her spine as he undoes her laces and the beaded silk falls to the floor. Instead it is just her unfastening his doublet while he kicks off his boots and throwing it, onto the chair as he tugs off his shirt, tugs his trousers down his legs while she bends and picks up the beautiful wedding gown and folds it gently before crossing to the bed. With more confidence than she’d known she had, she settles herself at the center of it, spreading her legs as he crosses to her.

He climbs up on the bed, stretches himself over her and kisses her deeply, resting his weight on one elbow as he uses the other hand to cup her cheek, her breast, to slide down between her legs where he finds her wet and wanting. She spreads her legs a little wider, and feels him smile into her lips.

“Ready?” he asks her.

She nods, and he nudges his nose against hers before looking down to guide his cock into her.

Rey tries to hide the gasp of pain—she knows that it can hurt—but her whole body tenses up and his head snaps back up to look at her, his eyes searching hers.

“Rey?” he asks her. She’s breathing hard.

“Keep going,” she says through gritted teeth. She’s not looking at him. He presses a little deeper and she cries out again because it _burns_.

“Do you want me to stop?”

She feels herself nodding and he’s gone, it’s gone, but the burning remains and Rey’s face crumples as he rolls off her and pulls her to his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he says before she can say it. “I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

It makes her want to cry. Of course this beautiful day, this blessing of a day where somehow her tall stranger had ended up her husband would end like this—with pain and apology and Rey somehow leaving him wanting. She can’t bring herself to look at him, and his arms tighten around her, his lips finding her hair, his hand trailing up and down her spine to comfort her. Where he’d been hard against her before, she feels him going limp and shame bubbles up in her.

“I’m embarrassed,” Rey whispers at last.

“Don’t be,” he tells her and she looks up at him at last. He does not look disappointed somehow. He’s looking at her with that same look in his eyes, and now that her face is no longer pressed to his chest he drops his lips down to hers to kiss her, his tongue swiping over her lips gently. “I mean it—I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

She takes a deep breath and smiles at him. She knows he means it, and she even believes that he might not be upset with the situation from the way he’s looking at her. “I’m glad it was just the two of us,” she whispers, thinking of the chairs they’d pushed to the corner. “That we could stop.”

“I would have stopped,” he says forcefully.

“Truly?”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he repeats for the third time, sounding impatient now. “If that means this waits, it means it waits.”

“Unkar wouldn’t have wanted you to stop,” she mutters, knowing her godfather all too well.

“Well then I imagine he and I would have had some strong words about acceptable treatment of you,” Ben says fiercely. His eyes are blazing again, and Rey kisses him hard, pulling herself as close to him as she can, tangling her fingers in his soft, dark hair.

In the sanctuary, they had not been able to kiss endlessly, however much Rey had wanted it. But lying in his bed— _their_ bed—she doesn’t have to worry about anyone watching, about anyone knowing what it is that they already mean to one another. She kisses into his lips every thought she’s had about him since she saw him first the night before, every moment of elation, every moment of heartbreak. This is what she has wanted—his lips, his heart, his arms around her as she clings to him, as she begins to feel heat pool between her legs again.

She kicks her leg over his hips. His fingers and tongue had felt good on the surface of her sex—it had been pressing into her that it had hurt. So she lets her skin settle against his leg and he rolls her onto her back, his hips slightly to the side of hers so that his leg stays against her slit and his manhood—hardening again—slips up into the crease between her thigh and belly. She wraps a leg around his hip to pull him closer as they both roll against one another, and Rey moans happily into his lips, her hands running across his shoulders.

“Better?” he asks her.

“Much,” she replies breathily. Then, because she has to, “It’s all right?”

He rolls his eyes at her and kisses her forehead, kisses her nose, kisses her chin before burying his face in her neck.

It’s delicious—how his weight presses down on her making it hard to breathe, the weight and heat of him bearing down onto her as she pulls him to her as tightly as she can, holding him so closely that maybe they can feel as though he is truly inside her. She brings a hand down to where his hip is thrusting into hers and she circles the tip of his cock and he jerks towards her hand, moaning her name into her neck.

She smiles. She smiles when his hand traces its way down her side, over her rump, along the leg that’s hooked over his hip. She smiles when he shifts slightly so that his hand can fit down between them and she feels his fingers finding that nub at the top of her slit again that he’d been so attentive to the night before. She smiles as her toes curl into the blankets under her foot, as her fingers tighten against his skin and he raises his head from her neck to look at her.

“That is what I want,” he whispers and her breath hitches at the intensity of his voice. His fingers roll that nub between them again and she mewls. “That right there.”

She hadn’t realized how light she would feel when he lifted himself off her until he does, air flooding into her chest and making her feel as though she could float. He kisses his way down her chest, drawing her nipple into his mouth and sucking on it— _hard_ —at the same time that his thumb swipes across her. Rey writhes underneath him, her fluids gushing out of her and onto the blankets of the bed, her own wetness spreading out under her rear as he continues to kiss his way down her stomach until he’s settled between her legs again. He runs his fingers along her slit for a moment, looking up at her and she breathes shakily her heart swelling as he looks at her like that again.

He doesn’t look away as he slides his tongue along her, and Rey lets out a groan because there is something so sinful to him watching the way she reacts to the feel of it. But she can’t not react when it’s sending warmth through her whole body, and making her keen against his lips, making her moan his name as her hands clutch at the blanket beneath her. He licks her again, and again, and he draws her flesh between his lips, between his _teeth_ oh-so-lightly and the sound she makes is inhuman and she feels him laugh breathily against her cunt.

“What’s so funny?” she demands, propping herself up on her elbows and looking at him.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, grinning. His lips are shining with her and before she can even think of a retort he’s licking her again and he flats his tongue against her and heat floods her as she collapses back down, her mind going blank with pleasure and her sex clenching around nothing at all.

He presses a kiss to a spot on her stomach just above where the dark hair that covers her mound begins. “I love the way your skin flushes like that,” he says. She opens her eyes to look at him, her cunt still throbbing and she’s so aware of how empty she is. _Maybe it will be better now?_ She wants to believe that more than she actually does. She’s sucked on his cock—she knows how thick it is. But she’s wetter now than she had been when first they’d tried, and she wants him, god she wants him.

He’s nuzzling at her breasts now, and she weaves her hands through his hair, breathing hard. Then she rolls him onto his back and straddles his chest, bending over to kiss his forehead, her breasts hanging in his face, his hands coming to rest at her hips. She loves the taste of his sweat, the salty tang of it that makes her remember that she is here now, just as she had been at the lake the night before.

She scoots herself down a little bit, catching his lips with hers now. She feels his cock riding stiff along the crack of her ass and reaches down between them to pull it between them, and she rocks her sex against his shaft. He groans, and bites her lip, and she whispers to him, “I’m going to try again.”

His eyes shoot open, and she sees concern dancing with trust there. He makes that movement with his jaw, as though nervous to ask _are you sure?_ She leans forward to kiss him, tilting her hips slightly and lining the tip of him up against the opening. He whimpers, and she takes a deep breath and pushes her hips back to meet his.

It stretches this time—and it feels _strange_ , she thinks. But there’s no burning. There’s no pain. And she sighs with relief as she continues to push herself back onto him, slowly.

When she’s gone as far as she can go, she opens her eyes. He’s watching her and he reaches a hand up to cup her face, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “All right?” he asks.

“Odd,” she tells him. “But not bad.” Then she smirks. “I might get used to it.”

His breath falters and she bends her head down to kiss his chest, sucking his skin between her teeth. His hips rock slightly into hers, then she sits back up, enjoying the way his eyes sweep over her body, landing to where they are connected. _One flesh, one soul…_

She begins to roll her hips, slowly at first, getting the feel for the odd full and empty feeling she gets from him. Then she begins to speed up and he whimpers again, his eyes closed, his lips parted, his head thrown back against the pillows and his hands at her hips, guiding her back and forth on his cock, urging her to move faster.

Yes, it definitely feels good now she decides as she moves faster and faster over him. He stretches her out so perfectly and though she doesn’t think she’ll peak again tonight, she knows that sometime—and soon she rather suspects—she’ll do so while he’s inside her and how good that will feel, clenching around him while he stretches her makes her move even faster, riding him until she’s panting from it all. She sees the way his muscles are flexing on his chest and stomach as he matches her thrusting, and notes with possessive pleasure that the skin where she’d kissed his chest is still pink from it. Faster and faster she goes until he chokes out her name and she’s filled with a streaming wet heat and he goes very, very still.

She leans forward resting her face in the crook of his neck and he wraps his arms around her, holding her tightly. They lie there for a good long while and she feels him start to go limp inside her, feels some of the dampness—is it his wet or hers?—trickle out of her now that he’s not filling her up quite so much.

She’s nearly asleep in his arms when she hears a knock on the door. “Are you in there, Ben?” comes the queen’s voice.

“You missed it, mother,” he replies and Rey giggles into his neck. “Also I barred the door and am not particularly inclined to move at the moment.”

She hears a rumble of Unkar saying something—undoubtedly disapproving—but what exactly he is saying is lost beneath Queen Leia’s, “Good. I can’t say I particularly _wanted_ to witness that.”

“Worked out for everyone then.” Ben rubs a thumb along her spine. He tilts his head sideways and god his eyes are so warm. Warm, and loving, and hers. She kisses him until she falls asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Hope you enjoyed.
> 
> I made a sappy graphic for this chapter in which Ben can't believe his luck at the happy ending(s) he didn't think he deserved on my [tumblr](https://galacticprideandprejudice.tumblr.com/post/171500069842/otpprompts-person-a-a-princessprince-who)!


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